Redeeming The Reclusive Earl. Virginia Heath
had to tell him.
Which necessitated breaking her agreement to stay well out of his way. And might irritate him all over again and potentially damage their truce. But what other choice did she have? Right was right, after all, and hopefully he would be reasonable enough to understand that.
She wrapped the bracelet in a handkerchief, tucked it into her battered satchel and set off in the direction of the house.
Smithson was, understandably, horrified to see her and she apologised profusely for putting him in the unenviable position of telling his unpredictable master she needed an audience. However, to the great surprise of them both, Lord Rivenhall apparently took the news well and suddenly appeared in the doorway of the drawing room looking extremely wary.
‘Miss Nithercott.’
That he did not invite her to join him in the drawing room or make any move to come towards her was telling.
‘Lord Rivenhall, I apologise for disturbing you, but I have found something I need to give you.’ Effie rummaged for the bracelet and held it out. ‘It’s gold, my lord. A very substantial piece of gold.’ The dark eye she could see dipped to the bracelet before fixing back on hers.
‘And?’
‘And I thought you should have it. It is obviously very valuable.’
The dark eye widened as she walked towards him and offered it. ‘I found it a few feet from the hearth all on its own, which leads me to believe it was accidentally dropped or buried, perhaps to keep it safe, much like Samuel Pepys did his Parmesan.’
‘I’m sorry...?’
‘Pepys...’ What had possessed her brain to jump forward fifteen hundred years in one sentence? No wonder Lord Surly looked confused. ‘The seventeenth-century diarist? He buried his cheese in his garden during the Great Fire of London.’ He was staring at her now as if she were mad, as people were prone to do when she allowed her brain to speak freely without tempering her words. ‘Because Parmesan was expensive in sixteen sixty-six. I suppose it still is now, although I cannot say I know the exact price of it...’ She huffed out a sigh and gave her odd mind a stiff talking to. ‘Anyway, I digress... I suspect this bracelet is of a similar age to the pot. Which would make it at least two thousand years old. Perhaps more. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
He reached out and took it and she found herself contemplating his hands. They were big, making the substantial bracelet appear almost delicate as he held it. Hands which had obviously seen real work once upon a time, rather than the typically genteel, idle hands of the aristocracy. The strong, blunt fingers were tipped with neat, clean nails which made her feel self-conscious about the state of hers after a long day of digging. So embarrassed, she hid them behind her back and felt compelled to fill the silence. Typically, the only thing she could think to fill it with was history.
‘The presence of gold in such an ancient dwelling here indicates that the Celtic tribes which lived on this island before the Roman conquest traded as well as fought with one another—and perhaps even with other tribes across the sea. It suggests a civilisation which was both advanced and thriving. That bracelet is not a crude piece of jewellery either. It takes great skill to smelt the gold, hammer it into a perfectly round cylinder and then twist it with such precision before seamlessly welding the join. Something which contradicts many of the Roman accounts from the time of the invasion which state the Britons were basically savages. No savage moulded that bracelet. That is a high-status object created for someone of great importance who must have been devastated when they lost it.’
‘I thought they buried it. Like Pepys’s Parmesan.’ He said it with a straight face, but for some reason she got the distinct impression he was poking fun at her.
‘I suppose we’ll never know exactly who put it in the ground, but we can speculate as to who owned it... The tribal leader, perhaps? Although which tribe is hard to guess. Catuvellauni, perhaps? Or Iceni? Both occupied territory in Cambridgeshire. It is entirely feasible, I suppose—we could even throw the Trinovantes into the mix. They were very...’ His head had tilted as if he couldn’t quite fathom exactly what it was he was hearing or seeing. A stark reminder of all her differences from the rest of the human race.
‘Very...?’
She had started so she might as well finish the sentence. No matter how dull it truly was. ‘Very powerful before the conquest. Or at least so I’ve read in Caesar’s account of the Gallic War.’
‘You have read Caesar’s account of the Gallic War? As in Julius Caesar? He wrote books?’
‘The Romans were prolific writers. Without them, we would know nothing whatsoever of our history before they invaded.’
‘I had no idea we had a history before they invaded...’
‘Most people don’t. The records really do need to be translated.’
‘So you read them in... What? Latin? Actual Roman Latin?’
‘Wherever possible. Although some have been lost over time, so I had to...’ Why was she telling him all this? When this was exactly the sort of thing that made people give her a very wide berth. ‘Um...refer to the Anglo-Saxon histories which borrowed a great deal from the Roman.’
He now had that baffled look which people always got when they realised she was peculiar. No matter how many times she tried to hide it. ‘Are you fluent in Anglo-Saxon, too, Miss Nithercott?’
She was. And Norse. She could also get by in Ancient Greek, but her Hebrew was practically non-existent, although, in her defence, she had never had much cause to learn it. ‘Technically, the Angles and the Saxons originally had different languages, my lord, but over time they...um...’
‘Um...?’ Bemusement was rapidly turning into amusement. It was obvious he thought her quite the anomaly. Which, of course, she was.
‘They merged, my lord.’
‘I shall take that as a yes, then.’ The corners of his mouth began to curve into a smile which did odd things to her insides, until the unmistakable sound of a carriage outside turned it swiftly into a frown. ‘Smithson!’
The aged butler’s grey head appeared out of nowhere. ‘I know, my lord. I shall get rid of them.’ And with that, Lord Rivenhall disappeared back into the drawing room, taking the bracelet with him and slamming the door.
Effie stood awkwardly on the spot for several seconds until she realised she was in full view of the front entrance and not really in a fit state to be seen by any of the local gentry, who tended to disapprove of her insistence on wearing breeches when she worked. Not that they particularly approved of her in a frock either, but that was by the by. Impending disapproval aside, if they saw her in the elusive and mysterious Lord Rivenhall’s hallway, they might feel aggrieved at being sent away and, knowing the way their minds worked, that would inevitably lead to unwanted and entirely unwarranted gossip. When she had promised herself faithfully she would actively try to avoid any more gossip—at least for the next few months.
Until the dust settled.
Because the rector, it turned out, did not take kindly to having the story of Noah questioned during a sermon. Even though, to Effie, Lamarck’s hypothesis that new species were created all the time made it entirely improbable the animals which walked the planet today would be exactly the same as those which walked down the gang plank of the ark after the Great Flood several millennia ago. The ark would have had to have been at least the size of France to accommodate two of every species which walked the Earth now!
The congregation hadn’t appreciated her comment, either, and she’d been treated as more of a pariah than usual in the four weeks since which had made her feel significantly lonelier than she usually did.
A moment before Smithson opened the door and exposed her to the caller, she darted into the drawing room, too. Yet another thing which seemed to surprise Lord Rivenhall, who had taken himself to the French doors to stare out at the garden.
‘Do